My name is Eden.
I am not a garden, not even a flower.
I am a shell, a husk, a vessel.
I hold in the pain of those closest to me.
My pain doesn't stay in this body.
It escapes through the cracks and pores.
It bleeds out through my eyes until I am blind.
But once in a while I can stop the flow.
It gathers around inside my wrists;
little pools of faces.
People I love. People I need.
People I can never have.
Sometimes the pain spreads into my back.
But that's when it stops hurting.
Stops blinding.
Feather by feather, my wings unfold.
And my bones crack and hollow out.
To mach my insides.
If I look up, my heart longs for the sky.
So I let it swallow me whole,
as I lift my wings.
I am not a garden, not even a flower.
I am a free, weightless bird.